


The Call

by crinklescofftrip



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: F/M, POV Buffy Summers, Post Season 7 (btvs), Post Season S5E11 (Angel), Spuffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2019-04-08 02:49:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14095470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crinklescofftrip/pseuds/crinklescofftrip
Summary: The decision not to trust Angel after he joined Wolfram & Hart hadn't been easy. It was the right one, but to Buffy it still felt like a betrayal. She expected Andrew report that he was angry after Dana, not to tell her Spike was still alive. Implied Spuffy.





	The Call

No one ever tells you one the hardest part of moving away from home is the temperature change. Okay, that was lie. Sometime before Sunnydale, before vampires and missions, Buffy remembered good natured warnings. She had always wanted to move away as a kid. She had a dream about skating on natural ice in a winter wonderland back then, oblivious to the bite that a frosty wind could have on Southern Californian skin. So far, she hadn't seen snow in her new location. She hadn't even thought to find out whether her part of Scotland was even prone to it. Sitting, alone, in one of three window booths belonging to the only twenty-four hour coffee shop in the town nearest her European base, Buffy found herself thinking about the weather for the first time. The street outside her window was empty and gray, the glass speckled by an assault of falling rain.

"Guess I got my cold weather," she said softly to the vacant streets outside her window. They were decorated with an intricate pattern of perpetually splashing ripples, restless and unsettling, and she felt listless watching it.

It seemed odd to her that no one was out running errands, even with the storm gearing up, until it occurred to her that it was only half past five on a Saturday morning. Normal people slept, she remembered. Her relationship with time had become considerably complicated over the months since she left America. Or Sunnydale. . .perhaps even before then, if she really tried to pinpoint a time when sleep was exclusively a nighttime affair. She was awake when she needed to be in her new life, her hours structured around when she had to slay, or teach, or train, or make phone calls around the world. . . Buffy hadn't planned on the coffee shop this morning. It wasn't where she was needed by any means, but where she had been sent—more or less.

There was a generously sized mug of coffee in her hands (black coffee, all that she could get at this tiny establishment) which she brought to her lips as she turned away from the dreary view. But then her eyes landed on her cellphone. It sat on the tabletop in front of her with a crumpled slip of paper smoothed out beside it, looking forlorn and accusing without the aid of eyes or words. Buffy had never had a head for numbers, but she was pretty sure she could recite all eleven digits on the paper without even glancing at it. She had read them when she sat down. She had read them in Xander's car when he drove her into town to "clear her head", and before that when Xander first asked her if she would like to be alone to think about what to do with the possibilities that came along with that short string of numbers.

The pattering of the rain continued to sound through the ceiling as Buffy took another swallow from her coffee cup.

It was only half past five in the morning, she thought again as the warmth faded from her mouth. It was probably midafternoon in Las Angeles.

A bell rang from across the room as a new customer came stumbling in from outside. Buffy's eyes impulsively shot toward him at the sound. She was already aware of how bad weather could give vampires wiggle room in enduring sunlight, but his reflection in a security camera mirror quickly killed her interest. Before her eyes returned to her phone though, she noticed a clock on the opposite wall and was surprised to learn that she had been sitting in her booth for almost forty minutes. Only an hour ago, she had been waiting up with Xander for Andrew to phone in his report on the state of affairs in L.A. She had already been tired then, but Andrew's call was too important for her to miss. The last report he had given them before this morning, shared with Willow and Giles, had resulted in the harsh decision not to trust Angel and his associates with Wolfram & Hart. While not a rash decision—they had had a team of slayers keeping a distant eye on his activities even before Andrew was sent over—it hadn't been an easy one for Buffy to make. Staying awake to hear about Angel's reaction seemed like the most decent thing that she could do under the circumstances. They had sat up, her and Xander, discussing what could be done about the recovered slayer, Dana. Faith had volunteered to take her in as quickly as she had every other slayer from a troubled background, but there were some questions as to whether Faith would have the time to take care of her. Giles was also interested in studying her based on reports of her behavior sent ahead by Andrew. Personally, Buffy wasn't sure whether either location would be able to give Dana the attention she needed, but she was willing to consider the options. Her primary goal was to get Dana out of North America before Wolfram & Hart could put her in a laboratory, which had gone as well as Buffy could have hoped for—that is, without any unnecessary dustings. Though Andrew had warned her to expect a few unpleasant phone calls from Angel in the days to come.

She would hear about them through the grapevine, she was sure, though Angel himself would never reach her.

She set down her mug with a small click that sounded louder than it should have in the still predominately empty coffee shop. The man who had come in before was leaning against the counter where a seemingly half-conscious barista was heating up a sandwich in a rusted old oven. It was a rundown looking venue. Buffy had been surprised when her drink was handed to her in a cup made of glass rather than Styrofoam, much less one that didn't bare a single crack or chip. It was a nice touch, one that she was sure wouldn't be noticed by her fellow patron when his order was up.

Without touching her phone, Buffy picked up the crumpled slip of paper that bore the number for Angel's branch of Wolfram & Hart. She could dial it in just a few seconds, hit send and put her number in his records, compromising her safety along with that of everyone else working alongside her. Everyone who knew where she really was had been sworn to silence, even some of the people who only knew where to find her decoys, and that was a good thing. A smart thing. A definitely- _DEFINITELY_ -don't-undo thing, according to both Giles and herself. She was already starting to feel the pressure of heading an army of super women and girls while the rest of the world pondered the destruction of her hometown. It was a pressure that couldn't benefit from the interests of questionable allies pulling at her plans. She wasn't as foolishly loyal as she had been in her pre-Glory days. . .And Angel was a risk.

But what was Spike?

The question of the past hour tugged at her, and Buffy compulsively reached for her coffee cup again, glancing to and away from her phone in the course of a second.

Spike was the decision that had first made her friends doubt her in the fight against the First. He was the man who gave her the strength to get up again when she felt broken by their betrayal. He was the ticking timebomb that she had let walk among her troops when they were just girls playing at soldiers, and the champion that closed the hellmouth at the cost of his own existence. The greatest example of her intuition that she could think of, and at the same time, the most compelling example of reckless behavior that her friends could reach for when debating their plans turned nasty. . .

She had noticed Xander's hesitation when Andrew first announced Spike's presence in L.A., alive and well, and seemingly living out a dark knight persona. Andrew had said Spike threatened his life if he told them about him, and the corner of Buffy's mouth perked upward at the thought, reflected back to her by the dark contents of her mug. If nothing could be said about Andrew's gushing personality, his loyalty was no longer a problem in their group.

No accusations had come from Xander after the announcement, nor any assumptions about what Buffy would want to do. He had just sat there quietly as he looked at Buffy over the speakers from which Andrew's voice had continued to spill out embellished comparisons of Spike's brooding, lonesome vendetta against sinister L.A. activity and Batman comic book adventures, and she had been struck by the memory of Xander apologizing to her in her backyard two years before. Back then, he had admitted his crass treatment of Spike had led to distancing their friendship over time. Like everyone else, she supposed, Xander had grown.

Buffy set her coffee cup on the table again, trailing her finger along its rim. Andrew had barely been able to mention that Dana had attacked Spike at one point before Buffy cut him off.

_"How long has he been back?"_

There was a ding before the lone barista took the other customer's sandwich out of the oven, and Buffy let her attention slip idly toward the counter. She folded the paper that she was still holding in half, adding another line to the already established creases as if it could blot out the question of dialing. There was no absolute need for her to call today, she knew. Los Angeles wasn't going anywhere, nor was Spike. Apparently. But the way that Xander had looked at her, and the way Andrew's voice had faltered on the line when she asked her question, were both signs that she had grown to recognize. This was the sort of thing that always came back when times got sticky; she had made decisions in the past without telling them, had even lied about doing the exact opposite of what she'd said she would on occasion, and these were the things that bred distrust when leading. She needed to tell her friends what she was going to do, and she needed it to be an honest answer.

Andrew had said he wasn't sure how long Spike had been back, but Buffy knew that the answer could only have been awhile. Longer than their slayer spies had been in place, at any rate. They would have reported a new vampire just appearing suddenly. The girls that they had had stationed there might not have known who Spike was when they first saw him, but they would have told Andrew how long he’d been there after he identified him. 

A gush of excess moisture sprang up in Buffy's eyes, and at the same time the back of her throat seemed to swell out of nowhere, but she closed her eyes hard, swallowed hard, and let her breath out slowly. She wasn't willing to let herself cry here, she told herself, catching her head in one hand as it dropped toward the table. When her eyes opened, forehead still planted on her palm, she saw that her other hand had clenched into a fist around the ever enduring little slip of paper. She had to take in and let out another deep breath before she could relax it, loosening each finger one at a time to let the phone number flutter freely to the table.

The caffeine probably hadn't been the best choice, she knew. Normally she would have gotten decaf, but she hadn't slept before Andrew's call, and she was _so very_ tired. Staring at her phone, Buffy marveled again that no one had mentioned anyone other than Angel trying to reach her in the past few months. According to Andrew's reports, Spike was working with Angel's team. Not as a part of the law firm, but he was clearly on friendly terms. There was a nice little apartment where he lived, a few tough-guy bars where he drank, and a handful of streets where he slayed, all discovered by their spies before helping Andrew scare Angel off Dana.

_"Yeah, it seems like he spends most of his time playing Mario and Super Smash Bros during the day, though he could also be playing Sonic or Legend of Zelda. We weren't really able to see what he had in his apartment very well, no windows and all. But I guess he must have a lot of time to kill, what with the no daylight thing. Unless when he's working with Wolfram & Hart, because they have this special glass, and when he's there with his friends. . . "_

Time to kill. Spike always did seem to have a lot of spare time back in Sunnydale. There were more than a few days when she had walked in on him painting his nails, or avidly watching some shameless soap opera. It was usually because she needed to grill him over one thing or another. She had stopped herself from asking whether he was still wearing chipped black nail polish. Andrew probably wouldn't have noticed, and Xander probably would have been uncomfortable seeing her wondering after minor details like a crushing school girl. Wolfram & Hart would probably be able to fill up his days anyway, wouldn't it? Spike hadn't ever really been a set part of her group back home; he always needed to be handled with a certain amount of distrust because of what he was. With Angel's group, accepting a reformed ancient, blood-sipping killer probably wouldn't be as big of deal, would it? It occurred to her that Andrew had used the word "friends," which couldn't truthfully be applied to anyone she knew in regards to him. But now Spike had friends. Spike had a life.

Her cellphone glared up at her as Buffy straightened in her seat. She set her coffee cup down again as she listened to the sound of the rain picking up again outside. One call, and she could reopen all of the possibilities that she thought died in the hellmouth's closing. She would be giving Angel a link to finding her, and potentially involve her in whatever schemes Wolfram & Hart might attempt in the future, but she could ask Spike all the questions she wanted to. Why he really hadn't left their final battle with her when he had the chance. Why he hadn't been the one to call first.

"So sorry to interrupt, Goldilocks—"

A voice devoid of the rolling Scottish r's, jarringly English, made Buffy jump so suddenly that she didn't register any other quality to it. Her head whipped to the side with an irrational expectation that was only disappointed when she saw the face of a complete stranger looking back at her. The man who had been ordering at the counter before was supporting his weight on an arm propped against her table, while the other grasped the outer edge of her booth. He was dark, shaven headed with brown eyes that looked at her with a blurry amusement that suggested he had been up all night himself, with a very different reason to be sobering up. He was grinning at her.

"Didn't mean to startle you, love. Just wanted to know if you had any change for a bloke needing to catch a bus?"

Buffy found herself blinking, her mouth forming a slight smile at her own expense. "Sorry, paid with a card."

"Ah, well, no harm in asking, eh?" The man made a clumsy nod to her and, shifting his weight precariously, began to remove himself from Buffy's table. He stumbled a bit on the first step though, and in the process of catching himself, he looked back at Buffy. "You alright, by the by?"

"Fine."

Buffy watched him go with a feeling in her chest like a rock sinking in a pond. She had a feeling that she was going to be jumping at that accent for a long time. Downing the remains of her coffee in one last, long swallow, she picked up her phone and dialed.

"Hello?" Xander's voice sounded a tad surprised on the other end of the line. He probably anticipated her alone time at the coffee shop lasting awhile longer.

"Turns out the coffee in Scotland? Not that impressive," Buffy said into the receiver, trying to sound casual.

"Oh. . .you don't say, Buff."

"Yeah." More gently, "I think I'm ready to come back now."

"Okay. That's great. I'll, uh, I’ll head back into town."

"Thanks."

After hitting the End Call button, Buffy picked up the slip of paper with Angel's office number on it. She glanced over the eleven digits one last time, sadly confirming to herself that she really did have them memorized by now. But that might not last very long. Numbers had always been evil after all. More for the feeling of finality, she tore the paper in two, and then into fours.

As she stood up, she grabbed the thick, comfy coat that she had tossed onto the opposite seat of her booth. Adjusting to the weather in Scotland was a goal still in progress, and god knew if she would even be able to stand it if her snowy childhood wonderland came into being with the winter months. Fantasies were easier than real life, what with glossing over those mundane, unpleasant details. In her new life everything was so complicated. She needed. . . _easy_.


End file.
